


We Dig In Our Heels, As Hard As We Can

by AlreadyPainfullyGone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Alternate Universe - Western, Amputation, M/M, historial au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 04:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1076319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlreadyPainfullyGone/pseuds/AlreadyPainfullyGone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Western. Castiel is a union surgeon fresh from the civil war, Dean is a confederate soldier working as a prostitute in a dangerous town. Rated for sexual content.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, Castiel sincerely believes that he has a death wish.

Why else would he be here?

He thought that, after the war, after everything turned to crap and he spent months on that straw bed, almost dead, that this impulse would have been somehow taken from him. As if in mortifying his flesh he had proved himself worthy of being healed by God. As if, by making the sacrifices he'd made, he had bought himself the right to some peace.

Castiel isn't sure he believes in God anymore.

It's a thought that makes him want to die, because what is his life without that knowledge of a divine father? But he's been close enough to death to know not to wish for it.

The horse takes him as far as the saloon, from there, for appearances sake, he goes on foot. The regular cribs are around behind the saloon, stretching off towards the edge of down, a little line of wooden shacks containing whores and blankets and nothing else.

God it would be simple, if he were right in the head. He can imagine life being so easy.

He makes his way in the opposite direction, off towards the other edge of town, where the stable is, and out beyond it, in the dark, sits a squat wooden shack, hardly visible apart from the lantern outside.

He goes to it, trying to ignore the scent of horse shit, and the rotting garbage of the town which is so close. The door is thin, his knock makes it tremble.

"I've got a rifle in here, don't think I won't take your fucking head off." Comes the less than encouraging reply.

Castiel wonders if perhaps he was mistaken, what if this is not the place he assumed it to be, the place he heard about in a whisper from one of the many fallen soldiers he'd cared for, right up until the final attack?

He does as he was told by that boy, takes a dollar from his pocket and pushes it under the door.

After a pause long enough to assure him that he's just shoved hard earned money into the home of a derelict, the door opened, revealing a tall, broad man, mostly hidden in the shadow of the room.

"Get in,"

Castiel slides past him, and the man takes down the lantern outside and brings it in, setting it on a rough little table made of a sawn off log.

In its grubby-gold light, Castiel sees that the man is entirely naked, much like the interior of the shack. He's well built, muscular, and seems mostly clean, even if his bare feet are filthy.

Most cribs at least had bedsteads, ticks, a lamp, but here was just a table, a heap of blankets on the dirt floor, and a sticky looking jar beside the lamp.

The man has the dollar in his hand, checks it, and goes to the blankets, pulls out a pair of much patched pants and slips the money in to the pocket, takes out a small tin, tossing the pants and an equally worn shirt into the opposite corner.

"You don't have a rifle."

"I don't need one," he sits down on the blanket, opens the tin up and rolls a smoke, beckons Castiel over. "Take your clothes off."

Castiel is not familiar with whores, this being his first time, but he's pretty confident that they are not usually the ones giving the orders. Still, he undoes his shirt and slips it off with his coat, his hands pause at the fastening of his pants.

The man raises an eyebrow and observes him with mildly amused green eyes. "Those've gotta come off too."

"I know...I just..."

The amusement changes into something softer, like smoke drifting between them. He puts the cigarette aside.

"You're not the first boy I've had from the war."

That is most probably true. Castiel takes a breath, then undoes and steps out of his pants. A moment later he sits down beside Dean, and he undoes his leg, and sets it to one side. The stump, pale and rounded, neat, despite the damage done, is incredibly noticeable in the dim light, the skin there is so pale. The other man's tanned hand reaches out and touches it.

"You a soldier then?"

"Surgeon."

The stroking fingers are warm and pleasant, they chase away the ache he still feels in his missing leg. After the last battle, outside Maryland, he'd cut and stitched and amputated for three days without stopping for sleep, food, or water. In the bowels of an old church he'd strapped one man after another to his table, their screams only stopping when they passed out or died. Legs, arms, fingers, all amputated, taken away to be dumped beside the church. Eyes smashed by musket balls, blood flowing from mouths, chests, ears.

Afterwards, when he was dragged away by an apprentice to regain his strength under a tree outside, that was when the attack came. Exhausted and numbed with horror, it had taken him minutes to realise that his leg was gone, pounded into splinters and meat by a shot from the canon atop the church – their own canon, his own men.

"What's your name, surgeon?"

"Castiel."

"Dean."

The hand slides higher, fingers bluntly exploring his groin, rolling his balls in his dry palm, giving his cock a light tug.

"And what is that dollar going to get for you tonight?"

The warm hand travels over his stomach and up his chest, the fingers pausing to roll his nipple between them, sliding up to rest against his neck, his pulse ticking against Dean's rough palm.

He doesn't want to say it, it's so hard, always has been, to put this desire into words. But he puts his hand over Dean's, leans back, and feels the other man's body following his as he lays down on the old blankets.

Dean's body covers his, Castiel's knee bent to keep his leg out of the way. Dean's skin is rough in places, scars or hard use Castiel can't tell, the hair on his is close and fine, he smells like sweat and dirt and other men. Castiel kisses him, one hand keeping Dean's mouth close, the other sliding down his back, feeling muscles under rounded flesh, the dip of his spine, the crease under his buttock. He must drive men crazy, Castiel knows, that curved ass and lips that are soft, despite the rest of him being so coarse.

They don't talk. Castiel is happy for Dean to do whatever he sees fit, and Dean seems to have taken the reins firmly in hand. He kisses Castiel breathless, until both their chests are heaving for the stale air of the shack, nips his way down Castiel's throat, sending panicked, hot prickles over Castiel's skin. A hint of teeth against his nipple has him crying out, arching off of the dirt because he wants to be touched, and it's been so long, and when Dean's hand slips between his legs, under him gives a long, firm stroke to his ass, balls, squeezes his cock, he shudders and moans and opens himself, leg wide.

Dean licks and sucks between his legs, kneads the underside of his head with his thumbs, drawing out a bead of slick, licks it away, and takes him into his mouth. One hand under him, rubbing, teasing, and Castiel sucks in air tries to keep his chest from bursting, moans without shame, because shame is for later - for after.

Dean shifts away for a moment, brings back the sticky jar of grease and scoops out a palmful, coating his fingers, one arm goes around Castiel's thigh as he settles onto his belly to work him open. Dean kisses his thigh, the crease of his groin, licks him and breaths his hot breath onto him as his fingers circle and stroke and press, leaving Castiel aching and panting as they skate away. Finally one slips inside of him, and his groan is so deep that Dean chuckles.

"Not a boy, my mistake," and crooks his finger, strokes and swirls it until he can add another.

Castiel can barely breathe by the time Dean had four fingers inside of him, the burn and the uncomfortable urge to push against them has become the desire for more, he can feel his body, open, wet and desperate for further ownership.

He realises that he's whimpering, bites down to keep the noises to a minimum.

Dean slides over him, sweat making his body shine slightly in the lamplight, his perfect mouth reddened and plump from the soft, sucking kisses he's been teasing Castiel with.

"You can make noise, no one out there'll care to hear you, besides, they're all too busy with their own whores."

Castiel runs his hands over Dean's back, feeling the sweat, the shift of his tensed muscles. Dean is breathing hard, and Castiel realises that so far he's been untouched. Is it some kind of bargain, within this transaction that he should touch Dean, make him feel and pant and come apart?

As Dean sinks into him, he loses the thread of that thought, just feels the tensing, and the giving way. He's surprised by his own silence, and by the strength of Dean's reaction, the way his face closes down, almost in pain, crinkling with effort and a deep frown, then smoothing out as his head tips back, teeth gritted and lips going thin in vicious pleasure.

Castiel pulls him down, so they're chest to chest, kisses the animal from Dean's mouth, making him human again. They can't move quickly, but he's deep inside him and Castiel lets out a soft moan with every move Dean makes, feeling himself losing it. It's been too long, he won't last, but somehow he clings to the edge, moans and begs and pants as Dean fucks him, digs his nails into his back, lifts himself with his good leg, trying to get a better position, trying to fall over that edge.

Dean's hands are flat to the dirt, holding him up, and he moves intensely, with his full strength, even though Castiel can feel the tremors going through him, hear the catch to his breathing, feel the irregularity growing in his thrusts. Suddenly, Dean pitches forward, forehead pressed to Castiel's sucking in air in an almost-groan, and Castiel feels him twitch and spend, pushing the heated mess into him with each shallow, shaking thrust.

Stunned, burning up with need, Castiel lies still as Dean slowly gathers himself, sliding his loose limbs away, lying on the blanket between his legs and licking at the stickiness running over his skin. Dean makes a soft sound in his throat, almost of hunger, and Castiel feels his damp cock, so close, twitch against his stomach.

He can't keep the cries inside of him, they fly free, and his legs shake as Dean avoids touching his cock, focusing instead on stroking between his legs with his tongue. It's almost impossible for Castiel to catch his breath, and he's never felt both more, and less like a man than he does spread out on that blanket.

When Dean picks him up, and puts him astride his lap, it's entirely without Castiel's aid, his body is too strung out to be any use. He's been thinking of his release since he started riding, almost a day ago, and to have it staved off again and again, snatched from him the very moment it felt inevitable, is too much.

Dean's hand holds him at the small of his back, hot and heavy on his sweating skin, the other is splayed at the top of his spine, steadying him as he thrusts into him, arousal renewed. Castiel lets his head roll back and groans, shifting as much as he can, wishing he had his leg back, just so he could ride the man beneath him. He can't even remember the last time he was fortunate enough to have someone between his legs.

Dean's hand takes his hip on his crippled side, lifting a little.

"I'm not doing all the work for you," he pants, "fuck, move already."

Castiel wraps his arms around Dean's back, lifts with his leg as Dean takes some of his weight. The feeling is indescribable. Not just the thick cock inside of him, but the way his body clenches as he rides, the delicious strain in his back and thigh, the knowledge that he's going to feel this on the long ride home.

Dean bucks up furiously, but quickly grows tired, he has already come one, probably more, since sundown, and Castiel is quickly exhausted by the effort expended. They rock together, and each connecting of their flesh draws a helpless little moan from Castiel's mouth, Dean pants against his neck, and when Castiel comes, it's less like a punch to his insides, and more like a long, helpless series of deep kisses, Dean's mouth doesn't leave his, and Castiel swallows his cry as, minutes later he shudders and comes again, producing only a small lick of heat, and dragging them both to the ground.

He can hear Dean panting, as he tries to catch his own breath. The floor is not very comfortable, and his leg is complaining, as he moves to try and find a more agreeable position, Dean catches hold of him and lays him day, head on his chest. It's sticky and trembling as he sucks down air, but hearing his heart and feeling his heat is worth the scent of sweat.

Dean's hand runs sleepily through his hair, and after a while Castiel hears the scrape of a match, and smells the smoke of Dean's cigarette. He takes a drag on it himself.

"My brother was outside Maryland," Dean says, casually.

"I'm sorry."

"He lived. Took three shots to the chest, it's a miracle he did live...I guess you weren't the only surgeon working out there."

"I wasn't."

"'Course, he was fighting for the confederacy."

Castiel passes the cigarette back. Too many fine and not so fine men were lost in the war.

"He was captured, a union doc patched him up, saved him." Dean grinds the smoke into the dirt and rolls them over, so he can observe Castiel calmly. "On the off chance it was you, you did a great thing. And, even if it wasn't...there's plenty of men like him as owe you their lives."

Castiel avoids his eyes. "Not as many as you'd think."

"But enough."

Dean disentangled them, stretched, and went to recover his pants, stepping into them and checing the lantern on his way back.

"You know why I built this place?"

"Why?"

"Men like you. I guess, like us. It doesn't really matter how many lives you saved, or how many I ended to serve my home, doesn't matter how many slaves I owned, or how many miles you marched for Lincoln...we're still not on the right side. We'll always be on our own."

Castiel looks at the dirt floor, contemplating. "That's why I bought my own farm, I could hardly stay where my family were...for all I know, they know all about me by now."

"Must be nice having a place of your own."

Castiel shugs. "Where is it you live, if you don't mind me asking?"

Dean gestures to the left wall, "Ways over there, got a line shack that was my fathers, after he moved out here, he wasn't overly fond of the confederates, we disagreed strongly on that. Sometimes I think Sam only came to war with me to piss the old man off."

"Perhaps I'll see you again, if you're staying." He felt pathetic for saying it, Dean was a whore after all, hardly honest. He was just charming himself another dollar, some way down the line.

"Maybe," Dean's face betrayed nothing, "providing the men out there don't start objecting to my presence."

Castiel gathers his things and with the smile on Dean's face etched into his memory, he reclaims his horse and begins the ride home. He's sore, satisfied, but hollow and ashamed. It was always the way it was, after he'd been with a man, even one like himself. It was the loneliness of his life outside of the fleeting touch they could offer.

His farmhouse is dark when he reaches it at evening the next day. He puts the horse in its stall, gives it some hay, then fairly collapses onto his bed, without removing his clothes or washing. He sleeps for maybe eight hours, gets up, goes about his chores, makes himself something to eat and tries to calculate how long it will be before he's strong enough to handle the farm alone, even with his leg. Could he manage the plough? He thinks so, but, his bravado won't help him if he goes down somewhere on his acreage, unable to get help.

Night comes again, and he's just about to settle down for the night when someone bangs on his door.

With his peacemaker in hand he opens it and finds himself face to face with a long haired, tall man about twenty, wearing a dirty shirt and carrying another man, his arm around his waist.

"You Castiel, the surgeon?"

"What..."

"It's my brother, they shot him."

Castiel takes some of the other man's weight, tilts his head back and sees Dean's familiar mouth and long lashes, slightly disfigured by the growing bruises on his jaw and temple.

"He made me bring him out here, please help him."

"Sam?"

The tall man nods, startled.

"Bring him in, and I'll take a look."

He'd promised himself he'd never do again what had been done to him. That he'd never take a saw to bone, slice the flesh into a flap and sew it closed over a stump. But the wound was deep, the elbow smashed, and already festering from the long ride to his door.

He gave the forearm to Sam to bury in the yard.

Bathing Dean's unconscious face, he hoped that he would forgive him when he woke.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Updates are coming slow because I'm writing a novel and I just released one as well, so, things are pretty hectic.

"Sam?"

Dean opens blurry eyes and tries to sit up, but the weight of blankets and sleep on him is too much, all he can do is tip his aching head and squeeze his eyes shut as the room is twirled violently around him.

"I'm here." There's warmth in the bed next to him, and when he opens his eyes he sees Sam's sleepy, anxious face over his. That's when he notices the smell of the place, different to the line shack, the fact that for Sam to be in bed with him, it has to be a bed twice the size of their little cots in the shack.

"Where are we?" He shifts closer to Sam, trying to reassure himself that the yelling and gun shots he remembers haven't hurt him.

"Castiel's farm, the surgeon?"

He remembers. Pain, and a fear and knowing that there was only one person close by who would help him. If you call a day's ride close.

"I'm thirsty."

I tin mug of water appears at the edge of his vision, held in the steady palm of Castiel himself. He's wearing a crumpled shirt, the same one he had on when Dean last saw him. How long ago was that? He tries to sit up, but can't quite lever himself. In the end Sam's arms slip around him, and Castiel helps to lift him upright.

He gulps water, and when he's done he asks, "How long have I been here?"

"Four days," Castiel tells him, "you've woken a few times but...you had a fever."

His stomach is a growling cave. Four days, and he was already hungry when he'd let Cas into the crib.

"Sam are you OK?"

"I'm fine, Castiel's been taking care of you, and me."

"Thanks," Dean tries to gauge from the atmosphere around him just how much Castiel has been 'taking care' of his little brother. Sam nudges him. "I've been sleeping right here, Castiel's been on the floor."

"OK, I trust him," Dean doesn't know how far he trusts him exactly, but enough, for now. "Where was I hit?"

He doesn't miss the look that passes between them. "What?"

"You took a shot to your elbow...it would have been difficult enough to patch up but, the ride out here in the heat did you no favours." Castiel touched his shoulder gently. "It was mortified, when you got here. I'm afraid I couldn't save it."

Dean stares at him dumbly for a moment, then tries to drag his arms out from under the blankets, one appears, and he tears the covers away to find his right arm, his dominant arm, shorn off at the elbow.

"Fuck!" It bursts out and rings off of the walls. Sam steadies him, and Castiel takes a hasty step backwards.

"He tried Dean, it's not his fault," Sam is saying, tripping over his words, "we'll be able to get by, I'm so sorry."

He just keeps looking at what's left of his arm, it's such a strange thing without the rest of his forearm and hand attached, an odd shape, bulky with bandage. He reaches with his good hand and touches the edge of the clean linen. "Oh my God." It feels like his arm, it is his arm, but his brain is screaming at him that this is all a mistake, because of course he still has his arm, his hand.

"What the hell did you do to me?"

Sam grabs for his shoulder but Dean twists away, feet hitting the floor and blankets thrown off before he realises that he's naked. A shiver goes through him, and his legs give out. Castiel grabs him, lowers him back to the bed, where Sam pulls him back under the blankets. He's shivering too hard to do anything more than curse.

Sam holds on to him tightly, and after a while Dean lets him lay him back down and tuck up against him.

"I'm very sorry," Castiel says softly, his voice is thick, "if there was anything else I could've done...I never wanted to take another limb."

Dean closes his eyes. "If I ever see those men again, I am going to kill them, even if you took my good hand." He blinks his eyes open and shakes his head. "Sam, get him out of here."

Sam doesn't move, but Castiel disappears and Dean turns over, buries his face against Sam's neck. "I thought they'd killed you."

"No, they were too drunk to know I was there," Sam sighs, "don't be mad at Castiel, he's spent the last few days taking care of you."

"He cut off my fucking arm."

"If he hadn't, you'd be dead."

Dean's not stupid, he knows that. Just like he knows someone must have been washing him, cleaning him up and changing his sheets the past few days. The hell is he going to make nice with a guy who's cut his arm off and cleared up his shit. He can't even look him in the eye.

"He meant it, about not wanting to take the arm," Sam says softly, though Castiel isn't in the house anymore, "he's been drinking ever since you got well enough to be left with me. He woke up shouting about some canon last night."

Dean closes his eyes. He'd forgotten about Cas's leg.

His stomach gives a loud growl.

"I'll get you something," Sam says gently, inching off the bed, "and Dean...whatever you've done, I mean, however you know him? He hasn't laid a finger on me. He hasn't even looked at me, he's been so busy with you."

Dean knows that as well. Knows that guys like him don't always eye up boys like Sam, that Cas's have to be a sick fuck to be putting hands on the little brother of a dying whore.

"Look...I'll talk to him, get him back in here in a while."

"Alright," Sam goes over to the stove at the corner of Dean's field of vision, messes with a big pot of broth. Sam can't cook more than hot water, so someone else has clearly been cooking up a storm, because Sam brings soup and cornbread and a piece of fried pork with apple sauce.

Dean struggles to sit upright, and then the fight to eat one-handed starts. He never realised just how clumsy he is with his left. In the end, to his intense frustration, Sam steps in and takes over the scooping and transporting of the soup. He also cuts up the pork. The rest Dean manages alone.

A little voice at the back of his head is telling him that at least he's alive, at least Sam's safe and well cared for. At least it wasn't his damn leg.

He thinks of Castiel. He knows the kinds of things that happened in the war. He was there. Eyes punched out with lead balls, those things could rip your stomach open, smash your bones out from under you. Then there were the bayonets, canon, and the stuff that the enemy didn't have to throw at you – typhoid from corpses left to rot in wells, biting parasites, dysentery.

He'd taken more than his share of men to the surgeons after a battle, seen those desperate hollow eyed men try to put boys as young as seventeen back together with only stitches and a saw. How they'd run out of ether and chlorophorm, and out of whisky, 'till the only anaesthetic was a pair of strong arms to hold you down 'till you passed out from pain.

And Castiel had seen it. He'd lived it for God knew how many weeks? How many months?

"Go get Castiel," Dean says roughly, once Sam's taken the dishes away. "I want to talk to him, alone. Go make yourself useful."

Sam nods, used to his brother being a bossy ass, and goes off. After a while Castiel comes in, a v of sweat on his shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the smell of fresh chopped wood all over him. There's a half empty flask of whisky in his hand, and he offers it to him. Dean takes a swallow, winces, and leans back on his pillows.

"I appreciate what you've done for him. For me too."

Castiel frowns down at his bottle, doesn't say anything.

"I'm sorry I...look, you took my arm. That's the end of everything for me and him, alright? But I shouldn't've cussed you out, and...I shouldn't have forgotten your leg. I know you get it."

"I really don't." Castiel sighs, takes a swallow of liquor. "You think I'm not still angry at the bastard that cut my leg off. I'm a surgeon, I know there was no other way...but I still blame him. Because he cut it off."

"I didn't feel you do my arm."

"Ether."

Dean looks at the lines of pain etched into Castiel's face. "Guessing you didn't get any ether."

Castiel makes a strangled wheeze that Dean realises was supposed to be a laugh. "No."

"You get anything?"

"Piece of rope to bite on."

"Fuck." He takes the bottle when it's offered.

"Well, you'll still be able to do that," Castiel says dryly.

"Like anyone wants a one armed whore...especially now I can't go back to town," he has a horrible thought, "when Sam showed up with me, how much stuff did he have?"

"Just you and the horse."

"Oh shit," Dean closes his eyes, "and we can't go back for any of it. Clothes, my gun, money...fuck."

"I could go."

"They'd kill you soon as they saw you were helping us."

"In that case, I can get you both clothes, a gun...money would be hard, but if you'll stay 'till I can get a harvest in..."

Dean looks at him, hard. "You don't owe us anything."

"I took your fucking arm," Castiel reminds him, imitating his tone, "I'm not sending you out to die, without a cent to keep you and your brother clothed or fed over winter."

In a battle of wills, a well man will win every time. But Dean reckoned he could bide his time until he was well enough to get out of Castiel's hair. No matter how good he'd been to Sam, there was no way he'd force the surgeon to support them.


	3. Chapter 3

It gets to be night again far sooner than Dean would have thought; clearly he'd already slept half the day away.

Sam gets into bed after gulping down soup and a chunk of bread. Dean drinks his own soup from a cup with his left hand, and is slightly comforted by the fact that he can manage it. He also gains the privilege of going outside to piss in the privacy of the outhouse, not that he's going to forget the fact that his brother and Castiel have been cleaning up after him any time soon.

When he gets back, Sam is already out like a snuffed candle, and Castiel is laying blankets out on the floor.

Dean stretches. "Guess he was tired out."

"He's been watching you for the best part of three days," Castiel reminds him gently, "he was very worried."

"As if I'd let a pack of drunks get rid of me," Dean frowns, looking down at his brother, "no, he needs me too much."

He turns to find Castiel looking at him sadly, "if anything had happened, I would have kept him on."

"Thanks." Dean looks down, clenches his hand, reassuring himself that it's still there. "About us...before..."

"I didn't say anything to him, and I don't expect it to happen again," Castiel says lightly, "that was business, I know that."

It feels like a hand has tightened around his heart, and Dean tries to ignore it. He does not have feelings for johns, no matter how pretty, no matter how kind. They're work. They're bread on the table and money in his pocket, and, most importantly, they don't give a damn about him or Sam. They act like it, just like when they put orders in at the store they ask after the health of the owner's wife – it's a way for them to feel less awkward about handing over money. They say things about his body, nice things, and they touch him gently, but it's only because they're putting down their coins for his ass.

Still, Castiel has been kinder than he had to be.

"I'll pay you back, for taking care of us," Dean says, "I only meant that...Sam knows what I do for us, but...he's never met any of them, not that he knows of anyway."

Castiel nods. "Then I won't say anything. But, you don't have to pay me."

"I don't have the money but...I can do some work around here..." he clenches his hand again, feels the emptiness at his right side. "Or...I mean...we could..."

Castiel shakes his head. "No. No I don't think that'll be necessary."

Dean flinches a little, mostly internally. So this is what's left for him now. No one wants to fuck a one armed whore with a kid brother and only the shirt on his back.

He doesn't let it show on his face but Castiel leaves the blankets and puts his hand on Dean's arm. "I only meant that I wouldn't take that from you, not for nothing...it would be...it wouldn't be fair."

"But it's fair if you give me a dollar?" Dean jokes, without much mirth.

"It's fair if I give you something I wouldn't give you otherwise, as a trade," Castiel says simply, "or at least that's how I see it. I've never been comfortable with the workings of it but...there's not really much else for me."

Dean swallows. "You'd have done this anyway? For me, and Sam."

Castiel frowns as if Dean is speaking some kind of foreign language. "Of course. I was lucky, that I was able to do something for you – if I hadn't been able to keep you alive, that would have been something for me to bear."

Looking him in the face, Dean has the uncomfortable feeling that he's being valued, and Castiel sees him as much more than a dollar. It's been a long time since he was more than a dollar to anyone – hell, some of the bastards haggled, and he let them.

"It uh...gets cold around here at night." Dean says. "You should sleep with us. There's room."

Castiel looks at him, really looks at him, and for a moment Dean gets the sense that he's being looked in to.

"Alright. Thank you."

Dean shrugs. "It's your bed."

He gets in beside Sam, lies on his back looking up at the ceiling. He feels the dip in the mattress, the shift in the blankets as Castiel lies down, facing away from him, hears his quiet exhalation as he tries to relax himself for sleep.

It's probably because both Sam and the surgeon are so tired from taking care of him that they sleep so soundly. Dean however has had a good few days of being unconscious, and as he fails to fall into sleep, he lets his mind wander.

Castiel lives alone, on a farm that, judging from his brief look at it when he went to the outhouse, has to be at least thirty acres. Too much for one man, one who has, too look at him, never farmed by himself. Maybe that's how he can pay him back, show him how to farm, maybe help out once he's figured out how to get by with only one arm. Sam's a hard worker, decent at most jobs.

He almost jumps when Castiel turns over and rests against his side, his breath warm and smelling of the minted salt he'd brushed his teeth with. Dean leans to one side a little, allowing Castiel's head to rest on his shoulder, his hair brushing his skin. Maybe he was wrong about him being just another john, maybe he could be a decent guy, another man like himself, chewed up by the war, never belonging anywhere to begin with.

He listens to Sam snoring quietly. His brother's normal, there's that to be grateful for. Someday, if Dean can get some money together, Sam could marry well, maybe even get some more schooling and become a banker or a clerk. Maybe he could be a pharmacist, hell, so long as he's almost dreaming, Sam could be a lawyer some day. Have a wife and kids and a house with thick walls and fancy couches and a china hutch and all that clutter.

And Dean well...he'll be OK. He always is.

Castiel whimpers slightly in his sleep, moves closer and Dean feels fingers catch at the hand on the opposite side of him to where Cas is lying.

"Don't worry, no copper heads out tonight." He mutters, squeezing Castiel's hand, "well, just me and...I've only got one arm."

He turns his head and finds Castiel's eyes on him, reflecting the dim moonlight filtering through the shutters.

"I thought you were asleep."

"Got woken up," Castiel mutters, still drowsy. "Dreaming about those confederates."

"Can't blame you, they are lookers."

Castiel huffs a soft laugh, and Dean, emboldened, rolls over and little and puts an arm around him. It so good to be in a soft bed, with a man next to him - a feeling he never thought he'd have. Even if he's a little chilled with the impermanence of it, the fact that Castiel doesn't really want him, it's still a nice feeling.

"Go to sleep," he mutters against Castiel's ear. "If the south rises, I'll wake you."

Castiel huffs again sleepily. "Promise?"

"You'll probably notice," Dean mutters, but Castiel is already asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of updates, my laptop's been at the shop getting fixed.

Castiel has woken alone every day since the day he was born.

Even in the army he’d had his own small tent, and would wake to the grey sunlight coming through the canvas over him, the sounds of men moving around outside, and the cold, damp air his only bedfellow.

When he blinks his eyes open, his first feeling is one of intense warmth. There’s a weight on his chest, warm breath on his skin, a heated weight at his side. Movement on the other side of the bed, but, not from the man lying on his chest. He looks down, finds Dean fast asleep, hand clenching and unclenching a handful of sheets, his perpetual suspicious frown smoothed out in trusting sleep – for the first time untroubled by pain and fever.

Castiel glances over and finds Sam slipping out of the bed on the other side pulling on a shirt and his tattered jeans.

“I’ll get the stove on,” Sam whispers, clearly used to creeping around Dean first thing in the morning. “Coffee?”

Castiel mouths ‘yes’ not trusting a whisper so close to Dean’s sleeping form.

Dean grunts quietly and presses his head against Castiel’s chest as though trying to soften a particularly stubborn pillow.

Castiel lies still, listening to Sam busy himself with the stove. It’s strange, having people in his home after spending so long alone. He knows it’s only temporary but it’s so peaceful, so normal, having people around to combat the gnawing anxiety he left the war with, that he’ll be sorry to see them go.

Dean stirs, and Castiel watches him wake up, feeling embarrassed that he let Dean stay so close to him. Dean blinks his eyes open and rolls away, stretching with a groan.

“Morning,” he mutters, scratching his stomach.

“Morning.”

Dean drags himself upright and seems not to mind that mere moments ago he’d been spread over Castiel like a buffalo robe.

“Best sleep I’ve had for a while,” he says quietly, nudging Castiel’s stiff shoulder with an open palm. “Where’s Sam?”

“Making breakfast.”

Dean screws up his face. “Someone better go stop him.”

“Here,” Sam appears from the kitchen, two cups in hand. He passes them out and Dean takes a drink.

“What is it?”

“Coffee,” Sam pouts.

“Great. Can I get another slice?”

Sam glares.

Castiel takes a sip. Gritty, burnt tasting and lukewarm.

“Sam...perhaps I should make the rest of breakfast.” He says, as nicely as he can.

“Nah, I can do it,” Dean says, climbing out of bed and going on a hunt for his jeans.

Castiel doesn’t ask if he’s sure. He knows how well that kind of talk went down with him when he lost his leg. He takes the cups out to where the stove is throwing out heat, and sets them down for Dean to refill when he gets done brewing the coffee.

“I expect you’ve got work to do,” Dean says, wrestling the bung from a jar of oatmeal. “With the farm and all.”

Castiel does indeed have far too much work to do. There’s a lot of land he wants to plough before winter, so that the turned over sod has a chance to rot before spring planting. There’s also repairs to do on the house and barn, and winter food stores to organise and protect from mice and rats, not to mention all the daily chores of chopping wood, caring for the horses, chickens and the two dairy cows, and keeping the house clean.

He’s lost time caring for Dean, and he knows it. Precious days in which he could have done a lot to get the farm in better shape.

“Nothing that can’t wait,” he says.

Dean pours meal into a pan and dips up water for it. “You’re so full of shit.”

Castiel sighs. “There are a few things to do.”

“Great, I’ll help once breakfast is done.”

“You should rest. You’re not...I don’t think it’s wise to push yourself.”

Dean sets the pan on the stove, turns around and faces him with a set face. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. There’s work. I’m doing it. You can stay here or you can come help.” He glances at Castiel’s leg, which he’d strapped on without his long jeans to hide it. The whole contraption is exposed by his underwear. “That’s if you can take it on that thing.”

He knows Dean isn’t being spiteful, just proving a point. Anything Castiel can do, he can do too. Only, Castiel isn’t so sure he can run the farm. Not sure he can bring himself to do anything besides stay inside by the fire and try to forget everything he saw in Maryland.

“Alright. We can go out to the barn. The roof needs repairs, and honestly I don’t know where to start.”

“Sam can help there, he was great at that kind of stuff when we still had the farm, and even in the army he was always...” Dean cut himself off, went to stir the oatmeal. Castiel waited.

“When were in the army, Sam would disappear, and it took a while for me to realise that he was going to towns, towns we’d been through, to help fix up anything that needed it. A lot of families, they lost their men to the war and Sam...he’s a good heart,” he turned to give Castiel a look, “terrible cook, but, a good heart.”

After oatmeal and far more palatable coffee, Castiel takes Dean out to the barn with Sam trailing after them, looking left and right at every broken board and cracked window on display. The farm had been cheap for that reason, it had gone to ruin while the former owner drank himself to death, his family having died of cholera.

Looking up at the sunlight streaming through the barn roof, Sam squinted, eyed the boards stacked against one wall, and sighed.

“Fixable?” Dean asked.

“Fucked,” Sam said, “but, I’ve seen worse.”

Dean snorted. Castiel smiled to himself.

Sam climbed up to have a closer look at the structure of the roof, while Castiel held the ladder steady and Dean sought out the tools Sam called for from on high. When he was back on the ground, Sam dragged out planks and marked off the lengths he needed cut. Dean tried his best, but sawing was beyond him, his balance was all off without the other hand to lean on. Castiel took over, and Dean made do with building a small fire outside to heat tar.

By the end of the day, covered in sweat and stuck over with sawdust, and sporting at least three burns each from handling the tar, they had at least managed to partially repair the roof. Another days work would finish it off, and then they could focus on the myriad other jobs that had gone undone or unfinished. Castiel groaned inwardly. Too much work to even think on, and he still wasn’t certain of his leg.

While he supervised Sam’s attempt at cooking the evening meal, he had no choice but to unbuckle the leg and leave it to one side so he could rub the livid marks on his stump.

Dean hissed in sympathy. “You should’ve said something.”

“Well, we were getting a lot done. I couldn’t leave it to the two of you.”

Dean, paused in the chopping of a withered looking turnip, gave him a troubled look. “I wasn’t being serious this morning...about your leg.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to push until it hurts for me to-“  he cut himself off, went back to the turnip.

Castiel wondered what Dean thought he was doing; trying to make amends for using him like all the other men who flung money at him? For cutting off his arm?

Maybe he was.

It wasn’t an encouraging thought.

Dean finished cutting and took the vegetables to where Sam was stirring the stock in a pot. Sam hissed something and Dean muttered sharply, then sighed when Sam nudged him.

Castiel pretended not to see.

He was looking out of the window on the bedroom side of the house when he felt a hand touch his shoulder. He jumped, found Dean at his side, looking embarrassed.

“Would it help if I...you know, like before?” he asked haltingly.

Castiel said nothing, but Dean sank down onto the floor, crossing his legs and reaching out a hand to gently rub the purple imprints the prosthetic left on his skin.

“You don’t have to.” Castiel said, by relaxed under the touch anyway.

“Just like you didn’t have to push yourself.” Dean muttered, “I was gonna say, I respect you, you don’t have to ignore your leg just because of my arm and...how we met.”

They sat in silence for a while, Dean kneading Castiel’s thigh until the imprints were mostly gone, the aching muscle soothed.

“Thank you.”

Dean shrugged. “If it helps, I can do it again.”

For a moment their eyes meet and Castiel feels heat flourish under his skin. The ecstasy of that night still fresh in his mind, and Dean’s hand on his skin.

“I...” he starts, but Dean ducks his head, removes his hand, gets to his feet.

“I know, you don’t want to,” he says quietly, and goes to make sure Sam isn’t burning water, as Castiel suspects he might.

He stays seated, puts a hand to the suddenly cold skin of his thigh, and asks himself, for the first time, what it might be Dean is looking for.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s used to feeling like an idiot. The only time in his whole life that he knew what he was doing was in the army, and that had just been a case of following orders; go where they said, sleep when they told you to, shit where they told you to, kill who they pointed you at. March, skirmish, pass out under canvas, drag the wounded out, circle the fire and choke down cold soup and warm whisky.

Outside, in the world, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He’d been getting by with Sam and his sideline in whoring, but he’d still been waiting for something. Waiting for a chance, for a better life to just come rolling past, so he could grab on.

And now it had, and all he felt was guilt.

Castiel, who still shook at night with war nightmares, who’d shut himself away on his broken farm, was stuck with them both. From the looks of things he could barely support himself, let alone him and Sam. There was work they could do for him, but would it be enough? Would Castiel want them gone come spring?

He lost sleep over it, kept running through it in his mind.

And then there was Castiel himself. The way he’d quivered under his hands when Dean’d tried to get the blood moving in his sore leg. Castiel didn’t want to take advantage, it was one of the reasons Dean trusted him. But did that mean his didn’t want him?

Dean had never questioned his attractiveness. It was one of things he could count on, from getting a free meal when the army passed through a town, to getting money from his johns. But, now he’d lost an arm. And Castiel had seen him like that, as a piece of meat gone bad. He’d sewed his stinking flesh up, cleaned up after him while he lay unconscious for days. How could he want him after that? How could he desire someone he’d bathed and mopped and cut into?

Consequently, Dean was tired and full of ill feeling for all the time he spent awake, much to Sam’s annoyance, though Castiel pretended sometimes that he didn’t notice, and spent the rest of his time talking to Sam only. His own foul temper made Dean feel even worse, guilty and ungrateful, but he’d rather be pissed off than admit to feeling worthless.

He was constantly aware of Castiel, wherever and whatever they might be doing. He could tell from the way he was breathing if his leg was giving him trouble as they fixed windows or nailed up clapboards. Could tell by the noises he made at night if he was having a nightmare. He paid him all the attention he had, he couldn’t help himself. ‘Course, then he felt more guilty for neglecting Sam, who’d lost his home and all his belongings just as he had.

“You alight?” he finally asked his brother, while they were sorting rotten shingles from sound ones in a shed behind the house.

“I’m fine,” Sam tossed a heap of shingles outside into a wooden box, “why, something wrong?”

“No just...wondering, that’s all. I mean, it’s not like we planned on ending up here.”

“Well, it’s not like we really plan anything,” Sam pointed out, “and it’s cleaner, safer and a lot more comfortable than that line shack. Besides...” he turned away, hiding his face, “now you don’t have to, you know...with all those men.”

Dean felt his heart go cold, his stomach drop. He hated that Sam knew, that he had pretty much always known, and worse, that he felt bad for him. Sure, being a whore sucked. There were the men who hadn’t bathed in weeks, the ones who treated him rough, the ones that stole his money or haggled over the already low price. Then there were the physical complications, tears in his insides, lice, sores – it hadn’t been pretty. But, there were times when he’d liked it, and in the end it had paid for their food, their clothes, had kept them from dying once they left the army.

“You know it’s not forever, that we can’t stay, right?” he said.

“I know, but, you never have to do that again. We don’t have to go back to the army, or starve, we can get some money together, maybe go out and buy our own land.”

It was a nice dream.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Dean,” Sam swung around to look at him, “believe me, we are going to have our own place, and neither of us is going to have to do anything we don’t want to do. Ever since the war...I’ve just been thinking that, we came through it, and I’m never going to look back at it. We have a future, OK? Tell me you know that.”

“I do,” he said, because Sam has a future, and he’ll do anything he has to, to make that future possible.

“And...you know Castiel would let us stay here as long as we want, right?” Sam said, “you, anyway.”

“I’m not going to take advantage of the poor guy. We’ll pay him back and then get out of his way.”

“He likes you.”

“Sam, don’t.”

“He does. And it’s not just because...well, because of how you two probably met. For what it’s worth, I think he really does care.”

Dean didn’t say anything, just kept sorting the splintery shingles.

“I’m going to move my bed out to the kitchen, it’ll be warmer by the stove,” Sam persisted.

“Sam, you don’t have to.”

“And you don’t have to be worried about what I think,” Sam said, “because I know that half the reason you’re avoiding him, is because I’m sleeping right there with you two. I’m not going to let you use me as an excuse.”

“And excuse for what?”

“For pushing him away, for telling yourself he’s not interested when he clearly is.”

Dean put down the shingles. “You know what, this is not a thing I’m going to talk to you about. It’s bad enough that he already know about what I used to do for a living, without you...”

“...knowing that you’re the kind of man who likes other men?” Sam said, “so, I can know you’re whoring to them, but not know that you like it, some of the time at least?”

Dean said nothing.

“Dean, I saw a lot of thing in the army, things that I’m done with, that I’m not thinking about anymore. Things that were the worst thing one person can do to another. This. How you are? It doesn’t even register on that scale.”

They were interrupted by footsteps in the yard, then Castiel appeared in the doorway. His hair was sticking up on one side from where he’d been lying down. He’d gone for a short rest just after lunch, and neither Sam nor Dean had seen the point in waking him. He was obviously getting very little sleep at night anyway.

“You should have woken me,” Castiel said, “I could have helped.”

“We’re almost done,” Dean said.

“Did you have a proper sleep, you still look tired,” Sam said.

Castiel shrugged. “I slept.”

The assessing glare Dean aimed in his direction didn’t escape Sam’s notice.

“You can go back, get some more rest. Like I said there isn’t much left to do here.” Dean said.

“Then I believe I’ll go and start dinner, I’m afraid it’s bean porridge again.”

Dean shrugged. “No complaints here.”

He watched Castiel leave. Not that he’d admit it, but a tiny part of him was glad that Sam would be vacating the big bed in the back room. The rest of him was anxious and persisting in not thinking about Castiel at all.

He was silent as the finished up their work, and thankfully Sam took that as a sign to keep his mouth shut as well.

By the time Castiel had dinner ready, Sam had moved some blankets into the kitchen, and Dean, studiously ignoring his brother’s activity, had taken a basin of water to the back room to wash with.

When he emerged, a pot of bean porridge sat on the table, and Castiel had lit a lamp to keep the outside darkness at bay. There was a nice fire going in the stove, and the pop and crack of the firewood joined the scrape of forks on tin plates.

None of them said a word.

After dinner Sam took his turn at doing the dishes, and Castiel excused himself and took his bottle of whisky out onto the porch. It was his nightly custom to drink a fair few measures before bed. Dean wasn’t going to judge him for that. There were days when he’d been with his company, drunk off his ass. Sometimes it was the only comfort you could rely on.

He went outside and sat down on the edge of the porch, about a foot from Castiel, who was looking out at the horizon. Castiel lifted the bottle and took a long swallow, then held it out. Dean accepted without comment.

“Sam’s sleeping in the kitchen?” Castiel said, finally.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Dean took a moment before answering. “He doesn’t want to...be in the way.”

Castiel said nothing.

“I told him there’s nothing to be in the way of but, he doesn’t believe me.”

“Is there?”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing?”

Dean passed the bottle over, not looking Castiel in the eye. “Maybe.”

Castiel was quiet for a while. “The worst thing, about all of it, was not knowing what you’d wake up to. Sometimes I went to sleep surrounded by soldiers, and I’d wake up in the night, with all the men running towards our enemies, with bodies on the ground.”

He took a long swallow from the bottle, then set it down. “So,” he said, voice quavering at the edge, “if there’s going to be something, or if there is...I want to know. I want to know what I’m going to be waking up to in five months, in a year.”

“There is.” Dean said, after a moment.

“Alright.” Castiel picked up the bottle and drained it. “I’m going to bed and...we can see. But not tonight,” he got to his feet, “too many ghosts out.”

Dean sat outside in the dark for a while, hearing the words going around in his head. His arm, the arm that wasn’t there, ached. He felt heavy and old, older than the dirt. At the same time, he’d never felt smaller, or colder.

When he went back inside, Sam was asleep in front of the glowing coals in the stove. He creapt past in the dark and went into the back room. Dean put his clothes over a chair and lifted one side of the blankets.

He’s barely lain still a minute before he felt Castiel’s arms go around him, and he lifted his head to rest it on Castiel’s chest.

The board walls sighed and ticked as they shifted their weight.

Dean closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

When he woke up, the bed was cold, and there was shouting.

Dean sat up, found the room empty and then heard a raised voice that wasn’t Castiel, or his brother. He was out of bed and across the room before he thought to grab jeans.

In the kitchen, Sam was crouched by the window, peering through the dirty glass.  

“What’s...”

Sam turned and motioned for Dean to get out of sight. Dean flinched back and plastered himself to the wall, looking around for some kind of weapon. There was nothing.

He looked towards the door, saw the back of Castiel’s head, and his hand, with a rifle in it.

“I’m not sure what it is you’re hoping for,” Castiel said evenly, “but you’re not going to get it. Please go.”

“I’m not going ‘till he comes out and gets what’s coming to him.”

Shit. It was one of the guys from that night, one of the ones that had shot him and beaten him. The gang of men he’d barely escaped from. He rubbed the stub of his arm, filled with anger and fear in such quantities that he felt ill.

He glanced at Sam, who shook his head silently. They couldn’t do anything.

But Cas was out there, and so what if he had a gun? How many guys were there?

“I will not ask again,” Castiel said, and Dean heard the waver in his voice, knew that the guy outside, and whoever he was with, heard it too. They weren’t going to leave.

“Really, did you hear that boys?”

Two other voices, murmuring agreement.

“Well, that’s fine by me. You can stop talking, and we’ll just go in there and drag him out. Teach that whore to go around fucking other men, and be on our way. We’ll even let you bury what’s left of him. Or you could render ‘im down, sell him off to help you fix up this heap of rotten wood you call a house.”

Laughter.

Oh Jesus Christ Cas, just step aside, let them in. Dean glanced around again, helplessly, for a weapon, and noticed, through the open bedroom door, Castiel’s false leg lying on the floor. Shit. He was out there on a crutch.

Keeping low, Dean crept towards the other window.

He got there just in time to see the frontrunner of the gang leap down from his horse and start towards Castiel, who was leaning against the porch rail, his crutch discarded in favour of holding up the rifle.

The other two men, also on horseback, were dismounting, pistols held at the ready, as their leader advanced, gun trained on Castiel’s head.

Dean was about to dash outside when the first shot went off. He’d lost sight of them as he left the window, and for a moment his heart stopped, hearing the report of the gun crack through the air.

If Castiel was dead, if it was because of him...

He scrambled to the doorway and looked out.

Castiel was stilling standing. As Dean watched, the first man fell, and his two followers were frozen for a second, watching their leader hit the dirt with half his brain hanging out of a hole in his skull. Then they lifted their pistols and fired.

Dean ducked back inside, and watched as Castiel used the porch pillar as cover, readied the rifle, twisted out into the open and shot the shorter of the two men in the hand, making him drop his pistol. He gave the other man the same treatment, and then called out,

“I will say, for the LAST time, Get. Off. My. Land!”

One man, the smaller one, ran for his horse and hauled himself onto it with a yell of pain. As he stirred up dust in his wake, the other grabbed his gun off the ground and pointed it wildly, he fired.

A burst of splinters exploded from the doorframe.

“You fucking cocksucker,” he shouted, “you-”

A bullet hit him between the eyes, and he fell to the dust, twitching.

Dean heard the rifle clatter onto the porch, and ran out, bare feet hitting the splintery wood. He was just in time to catch Castiel around the waist as he leant heavily on the porch rail and almost fell.

“Sam!”

Sam came out, pale and holding a mostly blunt bread knife he’d apparently seized in desperation. He helped Dean to get Castiel down onto the step, where he could sit.

The two men on the ground were motionless now, the dust whirling around them, and slowly settling. In the distance, the third man was riding desperately back towards town.

“I hope to hell he doesn’t come looking for us,” Dean said.

Castiel was shaking.

Dean put his arm around him. “I’ll give you this, you can fucking shoot.”

Castiel let out a noise that was partway a laugh, and partway a gasp. Dean squeezed him tightly with his arm.

“Sam, will you go get Cas’s leg?”

Sam disappeared.

Dean rubbed Castiel’s bare back, like Dean he had only managed to struggle into a pair of pants before he went out to see to the commotion, they were a pair of cotton things he kept for sleeping in, with one leg half scissored off for comfort.

“They would’ve killed us,” Dean murmured, and Castiel nodded against his shoulder.

“Still doesn’t feel right,” Castiel leant further against him, “God, I never thought I’d kill another man.”

“They weren’t men, they were dogs.”

Castiel shook his head. “All men are men, no matter how low.”

Dean couldn’t disagree with him, as much as he wanted. He knew from the war, no matter how low or how drunk, how mean or how bitter a man was - his blood ran just as freely, and Dean’s heart and soul had broken equally for them all.

“Yeah...” he rubbed Castiel shoulder, looking at the bodies leeching red into the pale dust. “We’ll take care of them now, don’t worry.”

But, in the end, all three of them took up shovels and dug two trenches under the most dilapidated shed. Without bothering to put on extra clothing, so that Dean could see the cords stranding out on Castiel’s arms and in his neck as he did battle with the stony soil. He didn’t try to stop him, but, one the bodies were covered, he put his arm around him and led him back towards the house.

Dirty and plastered in sweat, Castiel sat down at the kitchen table and uncorked the whiskey.

Dean let him drink, while he and Sam put the guns away and started to boil water.

Once they had the tin tub full, Dean beckoned Castiel over, only to get a tired look from him. He looked abound twenty years older.

Dean knelt down and undid the straps on Castiel’s leg, drawing the contraption away and laying it on the floor.

“You’ll feel better,” he promised.

Castiel’s head was lolling to one side, a fair bit of whiskey crawling through us veins. He let Dean help him to stand, and awkwardly dropped his tattered, dirt dusted pants. Dean helped him over the side of the tub and lowered him until the water covered him. Castiel shut his eyes and leant back against the hot tin of the tub, his head resting on a folded rag that Sam had draped over the edge.

Same went outside to chop more wood, mostly to give them some peace, and Dean drew up a chair to the side of the bath and took a swallow from the mostly empty whiskey bottle.

“They’ll come back,” Castiel said, so softly that Dean almost didn’t hear.

“Maybe.” Dean’s hand dragged through Cas’s wet hair, “I can handle it.”

“I don’t want you to, I don’t want there to be...” Castiel looked too broken down to consider it, “I don’t want any killing, here. This is...this was, my new start.”

Dean passed him the bottle, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. If anything...God, what did I expect? That the war was over just because I came home? To people like that we’re worse than slaves...they can’t even sell us.”

Dean let his hand fall beneath the water and squeezed Castiel’s shoulder. “You’re worth a lot to me.”

Castiel’s hand crept up to cover his. “No more killing. Please. I don’t want to lose you.”

“Can’t promise I won’t protect you...though you can take care of yourself pretty well.”

Castiel looked away.

“Hey, that’s a good thing. Otherwise I’dve be digging four holes out there, and Sammy would be trying to keep me out of the bottle.”

Castiel looked at him for a long moment. “I’m not sure what I did to get you...I wish I could remember that instead of...”

“Well, however it happened, you got me. Anything ever happened to either of you two, you or Sam, I’d never forget it.”

He stroked Castiel’s chest under the water, cutting off further discussion. Castiel let his eyes fall closed and Dean trailed his fingers through the hot water, tracing the plains of Castiel’s body, the silk of it under the water, the hair on his belly tangling his fingers.

When Sam came in with a load of wood in his arms, he halted in the doorway and saw his brother leaning over the tub, mouth meeting Castiel’s softly in the half-light of the dying embers within the stove.

After that, the farm is no longer ‘Castiel’s’.

It’s just ‘home’.

 


End file.
